


at the beach

by Anna_Blossom



Series: Shipwatch 2017 [3]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Introspection, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-18
Updated: 2017-07-18
Packaged: 2018-12-03 19:18:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11538756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anna_Blossom/pseuds/Anna_Blossom
Summary: “Jamison.”He looks up, sees Mako standing beside him. His mask is gone. Jamison stares at his tattoos, all black lines and swirling shapes, framing his cheeks and forehead and chin. Sometimes, in moments like this, he’d wonder why Mako would cover his face. He asked once, during a motorcycle ride down a long stretch of the Nevada desert, but only got silence; so he shut up, because where Junkrat would push and push until he gets a response, Jamison knows better.Mako calls his name again, pulling him from his thoughts. He grunts, head nodding towards the beach house.“Let’s go.”DAY 3 - Beach Day





	at the beach

Jamison stares at the ocean, arms folded around his knees, the breeze blowing around him. Small waves lap at the shore before pulling back, white sand going with it. He watches the water flow, crystal-clear and cool to the touch.

There are few moments when he feels like this. Quiet. Pensive. More Jamison than Junkrat. Moments when he wonders what Australia would’ve looked like without the omnics, where his family went, who he could’ve been.

He feels Mako watching from afar, eyes on his back. Almost as if he was worried. He snickers. Worried? For him? Nah. A baby crab crawls along his line of sight, before getting dragged into the next wave. Nah.

A small part of him hopes he is though. Because worrying means he cares. Worrying means that Jamison’s more than just a paycheck and a good time. The baby crab’s there again, scampering away from the water, only to be pulled in a second time.

Seagulls cry overhead as a breeze ruffles his hair. The dirt and sand from between his toes get washed away by the next wave. He wiggles his left toes, before doing the same with his right— right. He doesn’t have right toes. Doesn’t have much of a right leg. Arm too, come to think of it.

He raises his hand to his face, staring at the shiny surface of his palm. There’s rust gathering at the first joint of his pointer finger, and more at the joint of his thumb when he turns his hand. He wiggles them. The pinky doesn’t follow. He’d have to fix this hand soon. Maybe replace it. Parts would be hard to find. Not much usable junk on the beach.

“Jamison.”

He looks up, sees Mako standing beside him. His mask is gone. Jamison stares at his tattoos, all black lines and swirling shapes, framing his cheeks and forehead and chin. Sometimes, in moments like this, he’d wonder why Mako would cover his face. He asked once, during a motorcycle ride down a long stretch of the Nevada desert, but only got silence; so he shut up, because where Junkrat would push and push until he gets a response, Jamison knows better.

Mako calls his name again, pulling him from his thoughts. He grunts, head nodding towards the beach house.

“Let’s go.”

Jamison follows, sluggish as he walks behind Mako. He stares at the dirty bandages wrapping around the other man’s middle, part of it already stained with blood.

He glances down at his own chest, similar bandages wrapped much more neatly than Mako’s. To be fair, Jamison did Mako’s with a semi-broken hand while the other was fading fast into a state of unconsciousness. Even then, Mako was far better at it then he was.

Mako herds him into the beach house, past the bloodstain on the foyer, the previous owner’s body pushed aside in the corner. Jamison spares him a brief glance. They were content to let him live; they only needed to lay low for a week after all. But then he tried to run.

Jamison lets out a small ‘ah’, before squatting down and taking his steel trap from the body’s leg. He inspects it, indifferent to the blood and gore coating the teeth. Six year old Jamison saw far more blood and gore during the Crisis.

“C’mon.”

When he looks up, Mako’s waiting for him, so he follows, setting the trap onto a nearby table for later. He leads him to the bathroom. A grimace forms on Jamison’s face, and he takes off his prosthetics; first the leg, then the arm, before Mako picks him up and into the tub. Jamison rubs his elbow, his form tensing when water begins to fill the bath, but when his skin doesn’t start burning at the contact, he slowly relaxes, giving in.

Mako helps him clean up for the next ten minutes or so, washing off sand and grime and dried blood. He helps him put on his arm, then his leg, before changing Jamison’s bandages with rough hands. Then he waves him off, pushing a clean towel into his chest. Jamison takes it, exits, and watches the door close.

He gets to the master bedroom, the setting sun visible from the open window, the sound of waves audible even from here. He lays down, quiet, pensive; more Jamison than Junkrat, before exhaustion takes him.

\--

A click wakes him up, and he darts up, reaching for his gun and— and he doesn’t feel his arm. His arm’s not there, _his arm’s not there andheneedstogetououtoutout_ —

“ _Jamison_.”

He hears his name growled out, and he thrashes about, limbs flailing before something huge pins them down. He opens his eyes, breathing heavily, and sees Mako over him, black lines and swirling shapes furrowed into some semblance of worry.

“Jamison.”

He lets his head fall back against a pillow, groaning, eyes closed. “The fuck y’doing, mate? Get off.”

The weight around his limbs disappears, and he sits up. It’s dark, moonlight filtering in through the window, and the room smells of salt and sand. He glares at Mako. “Where’s my arm?”

“Never moved it.”

Jamison glances at his side, and grimaces. He tries to curl his fingers, to move the wrist, to lift it up, only to find it unresponsive, a dead weight. Snarling, he unlatches it in a way that’s comparable to just ripping it off and flings it across the room.

“Piece of— Fuck!”

His right hand comes up, grips at his hair. His breath starts coming in harsh pants, his body hunched over, and when he sees Mako staring, arms crossed, he growls.

“The _fuck_ you lookin’ at?!”

He grunts, picking up the discarded prosthetic and placing it on the bedside table. “Fix it tomorrow.”

Jamison sneers, wild and angry. “With _what_ , you stupid pig? We’re on a _fucking_ beach! S’not like scrap’s just gonna come floatin’ in!”

Mako grunts, just gets on the bed and lies down. Jamison bristles, ready to unleash another string of insults before a meaty hand pulls him down.

“The f—”

“Sleep.”

“You—”

“ _Sleep_ , Jamison.”

His lips pull into a scowl, but before he could say anything else, fatigue begins to creep up on him, and his mouth unwillingly stretches into a yawn. Just like that, his breathing starts to slow, anger reduced to embers by tiredness. He settles in, using Mako’s arm as a pillow.

“You’re lucky I’m tired. Else I would’ve beaten you up by now.”

“Hng.”

“I could totally take you. Even with only one arm.” Said arm finds its way to Mako’s chest, just over the line of fresh bandages, caressing gently.

“Hng.”

 “I guess I,” he yawns as the distant sound of waves further lulls him to sleep, “could raid the house for parts and tools tomorrow.”

“…Hng.”

“Too bad you killed the owner, huh? Could’ve asked him where he kept his tools.”

“Sleep, Jamison.”

The command is softer now, gentler. Jamison lifts his head, looks up, sees Mako’s eyes closed and his brow furrowed. He stares for a bit more, before settling back down.

“Alright.”

\--

Five days later, after Jamison fixed his arm and Mako put on his mask, Junkrat chats off Roadhog’s ear as they drive away from the beach and towards civilization, ready to wreak more havoc.


End file.
